


Group Therapy

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, F/M, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He eyes her suspiciously.</p><p>“Are you inviting me to a support group?”</p><p>“No way,” Clarke says, snorting at the thought. “I don’t think you need therapy. I just think you need drinking buddies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Group Therapy

“I’m fine,” the patient insists, trying to shrug Clarke away. He’s surly and resisting treatment, which Clarke knows is within his rights but has a hard time letting it slide anyway. “I’m conscious. I’m not concussed. Everything else is superficial. Go fix my sister.”

“Your sister is in the best possible hands,” Clarke tells him firmly, raising her voice a little and pushing him back down to sit on the hospital bed as he tries to push past her. “I’m not just saying that, either. She’s in with my mom, who is also the Chief of Surgery and has more than twenty years of experience. Your brother-in-law is about to go into surgery–”

“Shit,” he says, trying to stand again. He’s not ready to stop being panicked. Clarke can’t really blame him. It’s a justifiable way to feel when his family has just been hit head-on by a drunk driver. “You can’t give him anesthesia, or– don’t you guys have some kind that’s less addictive? He’s been clean for four years.”

“We know that,” Clarke says, bracing her hands on his shoulders and holding him to the bed. She can tell he’s strong enough that she wouldn’t be able to stop him if he really tried, but the physical contact seems to calm him a little. “He’s awake. He told us himself.” The patient wilts a little. Clarke takes a breath and continues, gentler, “Your family is being taken care of. If you let me check you out, sign off that you don’t have a concussion and maybe stitch up a few of your cuts, I promise I will get you updates on their condition. Deal?”

“Fine.”

He watches her stitch up the gash on his arm. It’s numbed locally, so he can’t feel a thing. She’s had patients do that before. It’s not fascination or fear in his eyes, though; it’s clear he’s at least a little desensitized to gore.

“You were awake the whole time? You never lost consciousness?”

“Never.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to get your sister out of the car,” she says, expertly moving the needle through his skin again. “Your brother-in-law, I get. He’s huge.” The patient huffs a sardonic laugh, which Clarke takes as a sign of encouragement. “But your sister is tiny. You could have easily lifted her. No offense, but you don’t seem like the type to just stand by and do nothing.”

“I’m not,” he admits, flexing his hands. “I’ve just seen enough trauma to know moving her could have made things worse. Best to leave it to the paramedics.”

“I’m impressed you were thinking so clearly.”

“Like I said, I’ve seen plenty of trauma.” His voice is very quiet now. “I’ve learned to be… not detached, really. But to channel my emotions into something productive.”

Clarke draws back to really look at him: his posture, his dress, the metal chain hanging just under the collar of his shirt, the tattoo on the inside of the arm she’s stitching up. It's all familiar, in a way. All the signs are there.

“How long did you serve?”

He looks up, surprise flitting across his features.

“Three tours. Marine corps.”

She nods and leans in again to finish his stitches.

“I did two as an army doctor.”

“And now you’re–”

“A trauma surgeon,” she says, giving him a wry smile. “Couldn’t imagine doing anything else." He nods and she knows he gets it. They've both learned to make use of adrenaline, of a high-pressure situation. It's hard sometimes, makes her remember more, but she knows this is what she's good at. "How long you been back?”

“A few months.” He looks up at her again, his eyes serious and scared. “My sister’s all I have. I lost touch with my friends, followed her here when I moved back. She has to live.”

“She’s in good hands,” Clarke assures him again. She hasn’t assessed his sister herself, doesn’t feel comfortable making promises she can’t keep. “I’ll go check on her now. You’re fine, just take care of your stitches and make sure you keep an eye on those other cuts. No infections.”

When she comes back to give him an update, he’s sitting in the waiting room, hunched with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Your sister’s going to be fine,” she says, lowering herself into the seat next to him. “She’s got a concussion and some stitches in her head, and a broken leg. But you’ll be able to see her in a few minutes.”

He exhales and it’s like the tension visibly leaves him. Clarke studies his face as he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.

“If you’re not busy on Thursday nights, you should come to this thing,” she says, startling him. “I’ll be there, and so will other vets. It’s nice sometimes, to just be able to talk to people who understand.”

He eyes her suspiciously.

“Are you inviting me to a support group?”

“No way,” Clarke says, snorting at the thought. “I don’t think you need therapy. I just think you need drinking buddies. We hang out once a week, and we don’t specifically talk about our time in the military, but we don’t have to avoid it or explain it either. It’s– I’d say it’s nice, but my friends are mostly assholes, so I don’t want you to feel tricked.”

He’s cracked a smile now, a small, fragile thing.

“I don’t think I have anything going on Thursday.”

“Great. Give me your number and I’ll text you the details.”

When he hands his phone back, she sees that he’s entered his name as Bellamy Blake. It’s nice. Alliterative. She likes it.

“Nice to meet you, Bellamy.”

“You too, Doctor Griffin.”

“Call me Clarke.”

* * *

Clarke is on her way to being drunk when Bellamy shows up at the bar on Thursday. He’d told her he’d see if he could make it, which she took as a brush-off, so she’s delighted to see him approaching her table. She gives him her biggest smile and he gives her a lopsided one in return, any wariness in his stance unwinding.

“Hey, you made it!” She says, a little too loudly. Raven bought the first round and she always gets stronger drinks than Clarke is prepared for. It’s maddening that Raven never seems as affected as the rest of them, and right now she’s eyeing Bellamy with calculated interest. “Be nice,” Clarke tells her, kicking her under the table. “I’m making friends.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Raven teases, waggling her eyebrows. But she does nudge Wells out of the booth from where he was sitting next to Clarke, making plenty of room for Bellamy to slide into his vacant seat. Clarke suspects it’s equal parts a favor to Clarke and a scheme to move Wells next to Raven.

Bellamy smells good, and he’s still smiling, and he _came_ , so Clarke is a little too distracted to give Raven a hard time about her ulterior motives.

“Guys, this is Bellamy,” she says to the table at large. “That’s Raven, Miller, Monty, and Jasper. Wells is at the bar.”

“Good to meet you all.”

“Likewise,” Raven smirks before turning her attention back to the other end of the table, where Monty and Jasper are sketching something complicated-looking on a napkin and Raven mostly seems to be despairing of the practicality of their plans. Bellamy fits pretty seamlessly with the group. He and Miller start interjecting nonsensical comments into the debate, playing at how long they can keep the scientists going before they notice that what they’re saying is completely made up. Wells drags him into a side conversation about grad school– Wells has already been taking classes at the university where Bellamy will start soon. Raven argues with him a little about basketball, a little more about video games, but Clarke has learned that usually means Raven has accepted someone into her social circle.

“How’s your sister doing?” Clarke asks him, when he’s in a lull with everyone else. He softens a bit at the mention of her, and Clarke melts. She wonders if it’s unethical to date him when she met him as her patient.

“Pretty pissed, actually. She’s not one for being cooped up, and we’re not letting her do much right now. Doctor’s orders. We’re all counting down the days until she can start physical therapy.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a park ranger at Mount Weather. She usually leads a few hiking tours a week, patrols and makes sure hunters are respecting the boundaries and that kind of thing.” Clarke hums in understanding.

“I’m sure she’ll be on her feet in no time. Recovery is like 98% mental. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“A kind of drunk doctor,” he says, amusement in his tone.

“Key word, kind of.”

Bellamy surveys the table and Clarke follows his eyes. Her friends are in varying stages of drunkenness. Monty and Wells are definitely the furthest gone, and have wrapped themselves around the most stable, sober person they can reach. Neither Miller nor Raven seem to mind much. Jasper is more on Clarke’s level: happy and loose, but not headed for a hangover.

“They all served?” He asks her, his voice having gone a little funny.

“Yeah, but most of us didn’t serve together,” she says, sitting up a bit and realizing belatedly how much of her arm had been pressed against Bellamy’s. They’d definitely drifted closer over the course of the evening. “Monty and Jasper did,” she says, hoping he doesn’t notice the goosebumps that rise on her skin now that she’s missing his body heat. “And Wells and Miller trained together. Raven and I knew… _of_ each other while we were in the service, but didn’t officially meet until after. We all just sort of found each other.”

“Clarke likes to take in strays,” Raven interjects with an eye roll.

“I’ve noticed,” Bellamy says, smiling despite his dry tone. “Is there some kind of initiation, or am I just part of the group now?” He wants to come _back_ , Clarke realizes, and her stomach jumps at the thought.

“Buy the next round and you’ll be official,” Raven says. Clarke tries to kick her again but gets Wells instead. Her aim is always a little off when she’s tipsy.

“He can buy the first round next week,” she says fairly. “I think we’ve all had enough tonight.” She shoots Raven a pointed look where Wells is falling asleep on her shoulder and Raven purses her lips to hold back a smile. She doesn’t give those away cheap.

“Next week, then,” she tells Bellamy, flicking Wells on the forehead to wake him up. “Come on, Jaha. I’m giving you a ride.” Miller follows suit, loading Monty into the backseat while Jasper folds himself in up front. He even shakes Bellamy’s hand before carting his roommates home.

“Need a ride?” Bellamy asks as Clarke watches Miller’s taillights disappear.

“I came with Wells,” she realizes. He laughs and swings an arm around her shoulders, steering her easily to his pickup truck.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says when he parks in front of her apartment building. “You were right. I did need that, I think.”

“We do movie nights sometimes, too. And video game tournaments. And–”

“Dinner?” He interrupts, nervous. Clarke grins.

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I personally eat dinner almost every day.”

“Good to know,” he says, smiling his crooked smile again. “I’ll make a mental note.”

“You do that,” Clarke tells him, leaning over impulsively to kiss him on the cheek before she opens her door. “Talk to you soon,” she says, winking, and then she’s gone.

The next Thursday they’re the first ones to show up because Bellamy picks her up straight from the hospital. He buys a round and Raven graciously ignores his arm around Clarke’s shoulder and the way she’s nestled into his side. She raises a glass, nods at him, and says, “Welcome to the unit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know little to nothing about the military. If I got something wrong, I apologize!


End file.
